On the Same Page
by Cascade Waters
Summary: Tag to 'By the Book.' WARNING: Contains non-sexual spanking of adults. Don't like, don't read.
1. Chapter 1 - Jones' POV

**On the Same Page**

By firechild

Rated PG-13

Disclaimer: The code is mine. The characters are not.

Warning: Do I really have to mention that this contains the non-sexual corporal punishment of adults? Seriously? And yes, I said adults—as in, plural.

A/N: This is a tag to 'By the Book,' written partially at the request of halo and partially because the boys just seemed to be asking for it in the episode.

Jones didn't know why his boss had insisted that he join the Burkes for dinner at their home, and he really didn't get why Peter had ordered him to follow the lead agent into June's mansion to fetch Caffrey; something in his gut was bugging him, but that could easily be the FBI coffee, and he was hungry for something that didn't come from a yellow paper wrapper, so Jones didn't bother to question it. Caffrey, however, questioned everything, very politely resisting Peter's repeated orders for him to come with them, until Burke raised an eyebrow and quietly said, "Hamilton and Jackson." Caffrey froze for a second, eyes slightly wider than normal, then swallowed and stepped forward, prompting the other two men to retreat to the hallway so that he could lock his door.

Burke was unusually quiet on the way to his house; Caffrey, not so much. The ex-con seemed, if anything, more talkative than usual, flitting from one topic to another, even bringing up sports and other such things with which he usually didn't bother, trying to draw Peter into a conversation. Trying and failing. If Jones didn't know better, he'd guess that Caffrey was nervous. Burke wouldn't rise to anything that Caffrey dangled before him, and Jones had a distinct feeling that he was missing something.

It wasn't until after a very strange, very uncomfortable dinner, which oddly included Caffrey's paranoid friend, that Jones found out what was going on. It started when. . . well, actually, he supposed later when he couldn't stop himself from thinking about it, it started when Peter stood up and kept Elizabeth from going to the kitchen for dessert for all of them, stating that he could only think of two people in the house who deserved sweets. She looked up at her husband and asked, maybe a little bit sadly, if this was really a good time, and he looked down into her face-in that way that always made Jones feel like he was intruding just by being there-and replied in a gentle voice that this was the best time they were going to get, before something really terrible happened.

From Jones's right, he heard Caffrey mutter, "Pretty sure something terrible's about to happen."

The three men at the table watched, with three very different reasons for feeling awkward, as the couple shared a long hug and a short kiss before separating. "Neal, Clinton, I'm sure Elizabeth would appreciate your help in clearing the table and taking care of the dishes." That marked the first time that Peter Burke had ever used Jones's first name. And somehow, even put mildly and graciously, his suggestion didn't sound like a suggestion to Jones, who stood up and started to gather dishes, feeling like he was back at home. Caffrey muttered again, this time something Jones didn't catch, but Peter must have, because he raised an eyebrow at Caffrey and said, "Lincoln and Hamilton." Caffrey went kind of quiet after that.

"Mozzie, I'd like for you to come with me, please," Elizabeth said. "There's something I think you should see."

The middle-aged grifter stood up, watching her warily but with some interest as she went to get her jacket and bag from their cradle between the front door and the foot of the stairs. "Where do you want to go?"

"The gallery. We're doing some updates and renovations, and I'd really appreciate your thoughts on our plans." Elizabeth reached into her bag and pulled out some palete strips.

A beautiful woman who had somehow earned his affection and tentative trust had just flattered him. The conspiracy theorist and tactician, defeated by two big eyes and a handful of paint swatches. Jones snickered and looked over at Neal, figuring that the young con would be just as amused at his friend's reputational demise, but Caffrey seemed alarmed, trying to get Mozzie's attention with wide eyes and sharp shakes of his head. Mozzie didn't see any of this and actually held the front door open for Elizabeth, trying to hide his grin when she complimented his manners. Caffrey rolled his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest, shaking his head in dismay.

He'd just raised his head and was scrubbing his hand down over his face when Burke looked up at the two of them. "Why are you two still standing there? Dishes! Now!"

If Jones ever started a restaurant or got stuck on KP duty at his uncle's house, he knew whom he was going to hire to man the sink. Caffrey seemed to be examining every inch of every dish, washing twice or sometimes three times before handing them to Jones for drying... almost as if he was trying to drag out what he hadn't wanted to do ten minutes ago. Jones didn't get it, and for once, Caffrey didn't seem to be in a talkative mood, so the agent just shrugged and dried.

Caffrey then insisted on cleaning out the dual sinks, wiping down the counters (and handles and knobs and fixtures,) sweeping the floor, and generally cleaning Mrs. Burke's already-clean kitchen. Jones was leaning against the sinkboard, watching him alphabetize the spices, when Peter called them to the living room. Caffrey's head whipped around, his wide eyes distinctly alarmed, and Jones rolled his own eyes and chucked the towel onto the drainboard before leading the way from the kitchen and back to his boss.

Peter stood by the couch, waiting for them with an expression that Jones couldn't read; the younger agent noticed that the coffee table now sat several feet away from the couch, that the senior agent's sleeves were folded up above his elbows, and that Peter held something in his right hand. "We need to have a talk," the senior agent said. Jones didn't really have time to wonder why his stomach was sinking before Burke looked past him. "Neal." Jones twisted to the see the young consultant apparently frozen just past the living room threshold, his face pale and his jaw set. Eyes fixed on Peter, Caffrey shook his head. Peter said firmly, "Yes." Caffrey shook his head more sharply, and Burke's "Yes, Neal," went past firm to stern. Jones was twisting back and forth so much that he felt like he was at a tennis match—though, with the way that Caffrey seemed determined to keep him in the middle, and the way Peter appeared to have forgotten his presence, the young agent wasn't real sure whether he was the linesman or the net.

Then Peter raised a brow, and his voice was lower and quieter (though farther from soft) than Jones had ever heard it. "Two Lincolns now, and if I have to come and get you, Jackson every morning for a week."

It sounded almost like the terms of some sort of deal or bet, though whether Neal objected to the terms or the deal itself, Jones couldn't tell. Was Burke going to politic the kid to death? Make him copy a history textbook? Whatever it was, Neal evidently wasn't willing to raise the stakes or call Peter's bluff; the young con gulped and stepped past Jones to stand before the senior agent.

"Good choice." Peter's tone was almost gentle... almost. He held out the object—which turned out to be a wrist rest, part of a set that Mrs. Burke had had custom-made for her husband's desk at the Bureau—and when Caffrey looked at it, Jones could have sworn that he heard the civilian whimper. Neal reluctantly took the object, holding it like he might hold a particularly badly done forgery, and shot Burke a look of appeal, but all he got was a nod toward another part of the living room. When Neal Caffrey, the indomitable master of all things confidence, dejectedly shuffled over and actually stood facing the corner nearest the entertainment center, Jones began to wonder if he'd fallen into the Twilight Zone.

"Clinton." Jones hadn't even registered that he was staring at Caffrey, or rather, at Caffrey's back, until his boss's voice pulled him back to his own weird slice of reality. He turned back to Burke and waited. Peter raised one eyebrow. "Not going to comment on my putting our consultant in the corner?"

Jones shrugged and raised his hands. "Hey, man, what goes on between you two's got nothing to do with me."

The look he got in return set random nerves to itching. "Oh, I wouldn't count on that."

Peter gestured for Jones to sit on the end of the couch, then took the seat next to him. "Clinton, I want you to tell me exactly what happened outside when you were supposed to be keeping an eye on Neal."

Jones blinked, puzzled. "Everything's in my rep—"

Peter cut him off. "Clinton. Please do as I asked."

Jones was a bit thrown off by this, but complied as if he was giving a verbal report. Peter listened to the whole explanation in silence, then grunted. "I see. Now, can you give me all of the reasons why that was a bad idea?"

Jones pulled back and gave his boss an incredulous look. "What? There was an opportunity. I improvised. You taught me to do that!"

Peter's eyes narrowed and his voice went hard. "No, I taught you to assess the risks, decide if they're justified, and **then** improvise within those parameters."

"What's the difference?" Jones asked with some heat. He was beginning to wish that he'd stuck with a Whopper and reruns of Primeval.

"The difference is that I think you skipped a couple of steps—like thinking about the possible risks to yourself, your charge, your case, and your job!" Peter, who had risen in agitation, now stood where the coffee table had been, his hands on his hips in a stance that should have looked mildly ridiculous on a grown man, but actually just showcased a power that most people wouldn't guess in the affable senior agent. Feeling unaccountably intimidated, Jones opened his mouth to defend himself, but something caught his attention.

"My job? What do you mean, the risks to my job?"

"I mean," Peter rumbled, now lethally calm, "that actions like the stunt you pulled have consequences; you endangered yourself, our consultant, our only witness, our victim, and our legal case with your little impromptu unauthorized undercover work. Defense attorneys have field days with that kind of cavalier tactic." He fixed Jones with a pointed look. "Serial killers have walked for less." He didn't say it harshly at all, but he saw Jones flinch and wince. Peter folded his arms across his chest and leaned toward his agent, his voice somber but much softer. "And the SAC is tired of taking flack and cleaning up after mistakes made and risks taken by those associated with his division. Clinton, Hughes wants to suspend you for two weeks, at the very least."

Jones felt himself go a little gray; he really hadn't imagined that this would all be such a big deal. Suspension was bad enough (try paying for an apartment in New York on half a month's pay) but an official censure like that also came with a black mark on an agent's permanent record. It wasn't the end of the world, but it could make it difficult for an agent to get promoted or reassigned where he or she wanted; not that he anticipated wanting to leave Peter's team, but Jones believed in keeping his options open (he supposed that was something that he and Caffrey understood about each other.)

Peter let Jones chew on that for a minute before moving his hands back to his hips and saying, in a very deep and stern voice, "I'm pretty sure that I can convince Hughes to accept that I've dealt with you and to cut you some slack, but you need to understand that I can't let this slide; I couldn't even if Hughes didn't care, because it just so happens that I do." He didn't wait for Jones to acknowledge that; Peter sat down on the center cushion of the couch, reached to his right with both hands, grabbed his junior agent's arms, and pulled the younger man over his lap.

Like any well-trained law enforcement agent, when he found himself being manhandled, Jones reacted—he reflexively reached for his gun, finding that Peter had actually disarmed him at some point without Jones noticing. He resorted to struggling physically, only to belatedly register that Peter must've really planned this out, maybe even practiced somehow (and wasn't that a cheery thought) for the older agent had no trouble anticipating and restraining his partner. "It's gonna happen, Clinton. The sooner you stop fighting me, the sooner you get out of this position." Maybe it was the calm tone, maybe it was the positive incentive, maybe it was the fact that Jones didn't really believe that he was in this ridiculous position to begin with, but he went still then, and Peter rewarded him by saying, "Thank you, Clinton. I knew I could count on you." That was nice to hear, but Peter went on in the conversational tone that Jones knew from hundreds of busts—the tone designed to lull perps into a false sense of complacence before they realized that they were up the creek and heading toward the rapids. "I had a feeling that a change of scenery would get your attention; have I got your attention? Good, good. You know, Clinton, I'm very proud of the agent you're becoming. I'm also very proud of your sense of self-preservation; you just need to work on learning when to follow it—fighting me won't get you anywhere you want to be, but if you'd used some of that sense earlier today, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Conversation? Jones just barely fought off a snort. A conversation involved actual verbal input from at least two people. This was no conversation. This was Peter using his strength and authority to make a point. Well, okay, point made. Jones was so over this. He wanted to go home and pretend that he hadn't been butt-up over his boss's knee for a one-sided. . . whatever. He'd gotten upturned, he'd listened, he'd taken his punishment, and now he was done. Peter wanted conversation, fine, he would get conversation. "I understand. I shouldn't have let Caffrey and his little friend con me into playing their little game. It won't happen again. Are we good?"

"Oh, I see—you understand. Well, let's see what we understand, shall we? Hmm—for instance, I understand that they had very little time to work a con on an experienced, not to mention wise-to-them, federal agent. Do you understand that I'm not buying it? Do you understand that if Devlin hadn't bought your act, our case could have been in the toilet? Do you understand that if he'd had buddies nearby to cover him, or if his bosses had had him tailed to protect their investment, you and Neal and Mozzie could so easily have been toast down there-without any help because we didn't know about your little improvisation-to say nothing of the hostage?"

And actually, Jones did know all of this, but until Peter said it, the younger agent had been successfully ignoring all of it. Now that it was right there in the air around him, he went limp with regret. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I understand."

"This is not okay, Clinton. Endangering the work is not okay. Endangering yourself and your people needlessly will never be okay."

Remorse and embarrassment, not to mention plain discomfort, had Jones losing patience. "I said I understand!" It came out loud, through his teeth; he'd talked, they'd talked, he wanted up.

"Oh, you will." With that, Peter smacked Jones. On the butt. With his hand. Hard. And then he did it again.

Jones didn't keep count. He didn't make note of the time. He would have been surprised to learn that he only got fifteen swats, one for each day of the suspension Peter was saving him from and one 'to grow on.' He was too shocked even to vocalize, or to put up much of a fight, not that he'd have had time to make a decent attempt, anyway. The whole s… s… smacking took less than a minute.

When Peter decided that he was finished, he flexed his fingers a few times before reaching down and levering his partner back up to sit next to him on the couch. Jones sucked in a breath as his weight settled onto his backside, but mostly he was wide-eyed, his heart hammering.

The next few minutes were a little fuzzy for Jones; later, he would sort of remember Peter saying something about 'no next time' and 'break in another partner,' and Jones was pretty sure that he nodded and murmured to Peter's general satisfaction, but nothing really sank in. He was pretty much still in shock. So it took a minute for him realize that Peter was telling him to get up. Peter looked a little concerned, and maybe that should have made Jones feel vindicated, but really, it just made him feel worse. He pushed himself to his feet, holding in the wince and the surprise that taking pressure **off** of his butt hurt as much as putting pressure on to it. Jones thought for just a second that Peter looked a little unsure, but decided that he'd imagined it (maybe wishful thinking) when his apparently epicly in-charge boss reached out and pulled Jones into a stiff but sincere hug for just a moment. Then the older man told his partner to give him some space—but not to leave the room. Jones couldn't have said why, **after** getting his butt… whatevered, that order had his stomach sinking again.

He followed the order, though, certain only that he didn't want to give Peter any more reasons to be upset with him. Not knowing what to do with himself, and not being allowed to leave the room to go nurse his discombobulated ego, the young agent made his way across the room to the bookshelves, scanning titles and trying to be interested in what he was seeing. He even pulled out a couple of them in the ensuing quiet, though he just couldn't manage to keep his focus on printed words. Jones was still working on it some fifteen minutes after his dismissal, and he jumped a little when he heard Peter, quiet though the man's voice was now, call for Caffrey. The consultant tensed and started to shake his head, and Peter rumbled in stern warning, "Neal." Jokes watched as Caffrey slumped, sighed, and slowly turned himself around and started toward Peter. The younger agent didn't notice anything amiss, but the senior agent did. "Neal," he said, and his tone made Jones want to hide. Apparently, Caffrey was neither a complete moron nor completely impervious, because he sighed, went back to the corner, retrieved the wrist rest, and made his way to where Peter stood in front of the couch. Jones wasn't sure why Peter thanked Caffrey then, but the young agent winced when Caffrey snorted. Jones'… ordeal had not been so much painful as shocking (though it had hurt, enough so that he could still feel it almost half an hour later) but he wasn't stupid—Caffrey was obviously in deeper trouble, and somehow Jones suspected that his boss wasn't going to settle for just getting the young consultant's attention.

Jones had turned back to the bookcase, to spare all of them some embarrassment and himself the acute wrongness of watching another guy get his butt smacked; he blinked as each swat fell. He hadn't counted during his own… he couldn't even bring himself to think the word… but he couldn't keep himself from counting now.

After twenty smacks, Peter stopped, and Jones felt his shoulders slump in

sympathetic relief. He heard Peter ask Caffrey why they were here, and Jones barely suppressed what was probably an ill-advised snort when Caffrey, his voice sounding indignant and just a little strained, retorted, "Because you're mad that the Antiques Roadshow got moved to Tuesdays?" After a pause (probably to let Caffrey think about his own insanity,) Jones was pretty sure that he heard Peter say something about 'Hamilton in the morning.' The lead agent let that sink in before asking again, and this time a somewhat subdued Caffrey managed a response that Peter found acceptable. The senior agent kept up a low conversation with his consultant for a few more minutes, during which Jones only caught bits and pieces like, "…you a favor this…" and "…keep them…" and "…will never be okay with…"

The younger agent could tell from the direction of Caffrey's voice that the consultant was still, uh, in an unpleasant position, so Jones guessed that Peter wasn't done when he paused the conversation.

He was right.

When Jones heard a very loud thwack and Caffrey hissed, the younger agent whirled around, startled, to see that Peter was using the wrist rest as a paddle, ignoring Caffrey's wriggling and kicking and moaning as he slammed down the object with considerable force, starting high and working his way down Caffrey's backside, leaving a couple of seconds between swats. With each successive impact, Caffrey's responses got louder, and with the fifth swat, the young con couldn't keep his cry contained; Peter's jaw was set, his expression sad but determined, and even though Caffrey wore out and went limp after ten swats, the senior agent kept going until he'd doled out a full fifteen. Then he chucked the wrist rest onto the coffee table—without aiming—and the three men were left with Jones's awkward shifting, Caffrey's quiet sobs, and the ticking of Elizabeth's antique mantle clock.

Peter took a minute to just sit back and breathe, and another to massage his fingers where Jones could see marks from the thinly-padded lower edges of the wrist rest; when he placed a hand on Caffrey's back and murmured softly to him, Jones shook himself free of his transfixed stare and turned around, embarrassed and feeling just a little queasy. He heard Peter coaxing Caffrey up, some rustling and sniffling, and more murmuring, but Jones figured that he owed Caffrey, so he kept his back turned to give them some privacy.

After several minutes, Peter called to his partner, and Jones turned slowly to see Caffrey stepping backward out of the lead agent's arms. Confusion and anger suddenly twisted Jones's gut—how could Peter do that to them? And how were they ever supposed to look him in the eye after that? How could Caffrey just stand there like what had just happened was, if not nothing, at least okay, and not a gross violation of personal space and trust? This obviously wasn't the first time for them, which made it all the more puzzling from Jones's perspective; Caffrey was the most self-assured, confident, indomitable person he'd ever met, so how was he okay with this?

But then Peter was squeezing Caffrey's shoulder and sending him upstairs to 'clean up,' and then the two agents were alone in the room, and then Peter was turning to him and beckoning him closer, and Jones was realizing that, just at the moment, he couldn't find enough nerve to say what was on his mind. He obeyed the summons without really knowing why, shuffling over to his partner and boss while focusing on everything but.

"Clinton." Peter's voice was soft now. "Clinton, please look at me." To his credit, Jones tried, he really did, but he just couldn't bring his gaze all the way to his lead's. He heard Peter sigh, and a little part of him flinched, afraid that he'd crossed the line again and would find himself upended again, but Peter Burke rarely failed to think through a situation, and this was no exception; rather than growing aggravated with his younger partner, the older man took a firm but gentle hold of Jones's chin and turned his partner's face to his, and Jones's surprise finished the job. What Jones saw in Peter's eyes wasn't anger or disappointment or censure—it was understanding.

Wait… what the heck?!

He didn't really have time to even process the thought before his boss spoke again, one hand holding his chin and the other comfortably cupped on his shoulder. "Clinton, I know that this was… rough for you, for all of us. I need you to understand, first, that I meant every word, and that I will back up every word whenever—and wherever—I need to." He squeezed the shoulder and waited for Jones's nod before going on, gentling his hand again. "Good. I also need you to understand that I didn't give you a choice this time because I needed Neal to see that he really wasn't the only one being held responsible and that he wasn't the only one facing embarrassing and painful consequences—he knows that I care very much about you, and he needed to see that connection so that he doesn't start to think that I just treat him that way to make myself feel powerful. Now, you want to file a report against me, that's up to you, but I think we both know that you earned what you got tonight. If anything like today happens again, I'll probably give you a choice between my consequences and the official ones; I think you can figure out that I'm not thrilled about doing it, but given the choice, I'd rather lose your favor than lose you."

Well, when he put it like that… Jones wasn't sure that all of his reservations had been answered or even completely quieted, but for some reason, he relaxed a little, and Peter nodded in approval and quirked that almost-smile at him. And then the front door opened and Elizabeth came in, alone and looking worn and mournful, and the moment ended with Peter quietly telling Jones to go upstairs and wash his face.

After an evening of surprises, Jones really shouldn't have been surprised to find himself informed that he would be spending the night in the Burkes' living room. Peter didn't explain, and it was clear enough from the senior agent's demeanor that he didn't have to. He produced t-shirts for both guys (Caffrey rolled his eyes dramatically at being handed an FBI shirt, but when he came out after his final turn in the bathroom, he seemed pretty comfortable wearing it) and brought down blankets and pillows, issuing last instructions for them to bed down, turn off the light, stay put, and go to sleep. Then Peter disappeared upstairs with two mugs of tea, and Jones and Caffrey were left wondering what had happened between Elizabeth and Mozzie.

Caffrey was gentleman enough to offer the couch—apparently his usual spot—to Jones, who considered for all of four seconds before declining; he was pretty sure that the consultant needed it more. As he evidently had in times past. The two young men got themselves settled quickly enough, Jones on his back on the floor and Caffrey on his stomach on the couch, and the quiet of the house settled over them, so that they could both hear the ticking clock and the street noise and each other's muffled shifting. Jones knew that his rear was still a little sensitive, but he wouldn't give in to it, especially since he was sleeping on a floor with very little to cushion his shoulders if he rolled onto either side. He didn't understand why Caffrey seemed uncomfortable facedown on the couch… though, after some reflection, he supposed that the consultant might not have gotten past the active burn stage yet. Jones winced, though he could only partially empathize; he'd had a girlfriend who had liked to play around some, but she'd always wanted him to be the, uh, the one 'in charge,' and he'd never played rough enough for her tastes. Tonight was the first time that Clinton Jones had ever been over anyone's knee.

It hadn't been fun, and he had no intention of going there again.

Jones was just wondering if he'd ever actually get his brain to calm down enough for sleep when Caffrey's quiet voice startled him.

"Well, that was a fun way to spend an evening." The sarcasm was as thick as cold molasses. Caffrey sighed softly after a moment. "You okay?"

Jones smiled to himself in the darkness; he'd just heard what was probably the closest thing to an apology he was likely to get over all of this. It wasn't that Caffrey was incapable of actually apologizing, but come on, who really says, "Hey, good buddy, so sorry I pulled you into my little scheme and got you put over your boss's knee for a spanking"? Never gonna happen. Should never happen.

"Yeah, I'm good. You?"

Caffrey snorted quietly. "Oh, yeah, I'm cool, that was nothing."

Jones rolled his eyes. "And I'm the love child of Princess Leia and Severus Snape. Come on, man, we both know that wasn't nothing. I'm not entirely sure what it _was_, but I know I don't want it myself."

Caffrey shifted again, blowing out a small breath. "Don't worry, never happen."

"Ya think so?"

"Nah, Peter'd never do that to you. He did what he did tonight, probably, to make a point to you that he cares enough about you to keep stuff off-book, and too much to be afraid to go out of the box so you'll remember."

"Sounds like you speak from experience. You can't expect me to believe that that was your first trip… over."

Caffrey was quiet for a couple of minutes before conceding, "I was kinda hoping you'd be too distracted to notice." Jones chuckled quietly. "Peter and I have… a history."

Caffrey probably really wanted that to be the end of the conversation. And that was really too bad—Jones had always loved puzzles; it was the main reason he'd become a federal investigator. "So… history, huh? History, like how he caught you twice, or history, like… Jackson and Hamilton?" He could all but hear the wince and feel the heat of Caffrey's blush, but he waited, unrelenting.

And it eventually paid off; Caffrey poutily explained the code that Peter had devised years before and why. Jones took a couple of minutes to digest the new information, which told him a lot more about these two men than Caffrey had probably intended for it to; he ventured an educated guess at what Peter had meant by, "Hamilton in the morning," and Caffrey's response, that it meant that Jones would probably want to grab breakfast from somewhere other than the house in the morning, told the young agent that he'd been right. Jones winced at the thought that this wasn't over for Caffrey, and again he wondered at the young con man's acceptance of all of this, but he'd gotten the firm impression that, as much as Caffrey wasn't insane or masochistic and would therefore prefer not to be facedown over the knee of someone intent on causing him pain in such a personal way, Peter had earned the consultant's trust and his willingness to stick around and deal. In that light, and given the current circumstances of Caffrey's life, Jones had to wonder if maybe Peter really had something.

Morning came all too soon—albeit, to the aroma of really superior coffee. Elizabeth woke her guests, and Caffrey gave Jones first crack at the bathroom. The agent emerged a few minutes later, back in his suit, and was surprised when Elizabeth looped her arm through his and told the others that she was going to teach him what a real breakfast was so that maybe he'd rub off on her husband and Caffrey.

As the two left the house, both carefully avoided saying anything about what was happening behind them.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC


	2. Chapter 2 - Neal's POV

When the two federal agents showed up at his door, and Peter informed Neal that he was coming home to Casa Burke for dinner, Jones didn't say anything. Neal, however, questioned everything, very politely resisting Peter's repeated orders for him to come with them, until Burke raised an eyebrow and quietly said, "Hamilton and Jackson." Neal froze for a second, eyes widening, because he knew precisely what that meant, then swallowed and stepped forward, prompting the other two men to retreat to the hallway so that he could lock his door.

Burke was unusually quiet on the way to his house; Neal was, if anything, more talkative than usual, flitting from one topic to another, even bringing up sports and other such things with which he usually didn't bother, trying to draw Peter into a conversation. Trying and failing. Neal didn't want it to show, but he was nervous. Burke wouldn't rise to anything that Neal dangled before him, and Jones looked like he knew that he was missing something.

It wasn't until after a very strange, very uncomfortable dinner, which oddly included Mozzie, that they found out what was going on. It started when Peter stood up and kept Elizabeth from going to the kitchen for dessert for all of them, stating that he could only think of two people in the house who deserved sweets. She looked up at her husband and asked, maybe a little bit sadly, if this was really a good time, and he looked down into her face-in that way that always made Neal feel like a voyeur-and replied in a gentle voice that this was the best time they were going to get, before something really terrible happened.

Stomach sinking, Neal muttered, "Pretty sure something terrible's about to happen."

The three men at the table watched, with three very different reasons for feeling awkward, as the couple shared a long hug and a short kiss before separating. "Neal, Clinton, I'm sure Elizabeth would appreciate your help in clearing the table and taking care of the dishes." Jones seemed surprised to hear his boss use his first name. And even Jones, who stood up and started to gather dishes, had obviously deduced that Peter's graciously worded suggestion was anything but. Neal muttered again, this time something Jones didn't seem to catch, but Peter must have, because he raised an eyebrow at Neal and said, "Lincoln and Hamilton." Neal decided that discretion really probably was the better part of valor at that point.

"Mozzie, I'd like for you to come with me, please," Elizabeth said. "There's something I think you should see."

The middle-aged grifter stood up, watching her warily but with some interest as she went to get her jacket and bag from their cradle between the front door and the foot of the stairs. "Where do you want to go?"

"The gallery. We're doing some updates and renovations, and I'd really appreciate your thoughts on our plans." Elizabeth reached into her bag and pulled out some pallette strips.

A beautiful woman who had somehow earned his affection and tentative trust had just flattered him. The conspiracy theorist and tactician, defeated by two big eyes and a handful of paint swatches. Jones snickered and looked over at Neal, figuring that the young con would be just as amused at his friend's reputational demise, but Neal was alarmed, too busy trying to get Mozzie's attention with wide eyes and sharp shakes of his head. Mozzie didn't see any of this and actually held the front door open for Elizabeth, trying to hide his grin when she complimented his manners. Neal rolled his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest, shaking his head in dismay.

He'd just raised his head and was scrubbing his hand down over his face when Peter looked up at the two of them. "Why are you two still standing there? Dishes! Now!"

Neal didn't actually have anything against washing dishes, per se—he'd always taken responsibility for them when he'd cooked, and he could appreciate the artistry in watching something come clean. But now, he was examining every inch of every dish, washing twice or sometimes three times before handing them to Jones for drying... trying to drag out what he hadn't wanted to do ten minutes ago. Jones didn't look like he got it, and for once, Neal wasn't in a talkative mood, so much to Neal's relief, the agent just shrugged and dried.

Neal then insisted on cleaning out the dual sinks, wiping down the counters (and handles and knobs and fixtures,) sweeping the floor, and generally cleaning Elizabeth's already-clean kitchen. Jones was leaning against the sinkboard, watching him alphabetize the spices, when Peter called them to the living room. Neal's head whipped around, his wide eyes distinctly alarmed, and Jones rolled his own eyes and chucked the towel onto the drainboard before leading the way from the kitchen and back to his boss.

Peter stood by the couch, waiting for them with an expression that Neal knew all too well; the coffee table now sat several feet away from the couch, the senior agent's sleeves were folded up above his elbows, and Peter held something in his right hand. "We need to have a talk," the senior agent said. "Neal." The young consultant froze just past the living room threshold, his face pale and his jaw set. Eyes fixed on Peter, Neal shook his head. Peter said firmly, "Yes." Neal shook his head more sharply, and Burke's "Yes, Neal," went past firm to stern. Jones was twisting back and forth, watching—though, with the way that Neal was determined to keep Jones between himself and 'something terrible,' and the way Peter appeared to have forgotten Jones's presence, Neal could hardly blame the younger agent.

Then Peter raised a brow, and his voice was lower and but dangerous.) "Two Lincolns now, and if I have to come and get you, Jackson every morning for a week."

Neal was still holding onto an irrational hope that he could talk Peter out of this, but he wasn't stupid, and he wasn't willing to raise the stakes or call Peter's bluff; the young con gulped and stepped past Jones to stand before the senior agent.

"Good choice." Peter's tone was almost gentle... almost. He held out the object—which turned out to be a wrist rest, part of a set that Elizabeth had had custom-made for her husband's desk at the Bureau—and when Neal looked at it, he couldn't swallow a whimper. Neal reluctantly took the object, holding it like he might hold a particularly badly done forgery, and shot his keeper a look of appeal, but all he got was a nod toward another part of the living room. Neal Caffrey, the indomitable master of all things confidence, dejectedly shuffled over and actually stood facing the corner nearest the entertainment center; this was sooooo not going on his business cards.

"Clinton." Neal could feel Jones staring, and he mustered as much dignity as he could not to squirm. He could hear Peter talking to Jones, and hoped for the young agent's sake that Jones would pay attention to that. "Not going to comment on my putting our consultant in the corner?"

Jones's tone sounded forced-casual. "Hey, man, what goes on between you two's got nothing to do with me."

Neal wasn't sure whether to snicker or wince at Peter's response. "Oh, I wouldn't count on that."

Peter's voice moved, and Neal guessed that he'd taken a seat, probably on the couch. "Clinton, I want you to tell me exactly what happened outside when you were supposed to be keeping an eye on Neal."

"Everything's in my rep—"

Peter cut him off. "Clinton. Please do as I asked."

Jones sounded a bit thrown off by this, but complied as if he was giving a verbal report. Peter listened to the whole explanation in silence, then grunted. "I see. Now, can you give me all of the reasons why that was a bad idea?"

Jones sounded incredulous. "What? There was an opportunity. I improvised. You taught me to do that!"

Peter's voice went hard. "No, I taught you to assess the risks, decide if they're justified, and then improvise within those parameters."

"What's the difference?" Jones asked with some heat.

"The difference is that I think you skipped a couple of steps—like thinking about the possible risks to yourself, your charge, your case, and your job!" The senior agent had obviously gotten to his feet again.

"My job? What do you mean, the risks to my job?"

"I mean," Peter rumbled, now lethally calm, "that actions like the stunt you pulled have consequences; you endangered yourself, our consultant, our only witness, our victim, and our legal case with your little impromptu unauthorized undercover work. Defense attorneys have field days with that kind of cavalier tactic." Peter paused for a beat. "Serial killers have walked for less." He didn't say it harshly at all, but he Neal could imagine that Jones took it hard. Peter's voice moved just a little, somber but much softer. "And the SAC is tired of taking flack and cleaning up after mistakes made and risks taken by those associated with his division. Clinton, Hughes wants to suspend you for two weeks, at the very least."

Neal did wince, just now considering that this whole situation might have real… ramifications… for Jones. Suspension was bad enough (try paying for an apartment in New York on half a month's pay) but an official censure like that also came with a black mark on an agent's permanent record. It wasn't the end of the world, but it could make it difficult for an agent to get promoted or reassigned where he or she wanted; Neal kind of hoped that Jones wasn't thinking about transferring, because really, the guy wasn't so bad (even for a suit,) but the con could appreciate the value of keeping some options open.

Peter let Jones chew on his words for a minute before saying, in a very deep and stern voice, "I'm pretty sure that I can convince Hughes to accept that I've dealt with you and to cut you some slack, but you need to understand that I can't let this slide; I couldn't even if Hughes didn't care, because it just so happens that I do." He didn't wait for Jones to acknowledge that; Peter sat down audibly, and Neal heard an 'oof.'

Neal could hear Jones struggling. "It's gonna happen, Clinton. The sooner you stop fighting me, the sooner you get out of this position." Jones went still then, and Peter rewarded him by saying, "Thank you, Clinton. I knew I could count on you." Peter went on in the conversational tone that Neal knew from his own history with the man—the tone designed to lull perps into a false sense of complacence before they realized that they were up the creek and heading toward the rapids. "I had a feeling that a change of scenery would get your attention; have I got your attention? Good, good. You know, Clinton, I'm very proud of the agent you're becoming. I'm also very proud of your sense of self-preservation; you just need to work on learning when to follow it—fighting me won't get you anywhere you want to be, but if you'd used some of that sense earlier today, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Neal heard a snort, and he could kind of guess what Jones might be thinking-conversation involved actual verbal input from at least two people. This was no conversation. This was Peter using his strength and authority to make a point; and Jones was smart, so maybe the point had been made. Neal wasn't eager for once to be the center of attention, but he didn't particularly want Jones there, either. "I understand. I shouldn't have let Caffrey and his little friend con me into playing their little game. It won't happen again. Are we good?"

"Oh, I see—you understand. Well, let's see what we understand, shall we? Hmm—for instance, I understand that they had very little time to work a con on an experienced, not to mention wise-to-them, federal agent. Do you understand that I'm not buying it? Do you understand that if Devlin hadn't bought your act, our case could have been in the toilet? Do you understand that if he'd had buddies nearby to cover him, or if his bosses had had him tailed to protect their investment, you and Neal and Mozzie could so easily have been toast down there-without any help because we didn't know about your little improvisation-to say nothing of the hostage?"

"Yeah," Jones said quietly, regretfully. "I understand."

"This is not okay, Clinton. Endangering the work is not okay. Endangering yourself and your people needlessly will never be okay."

Neal could empathize when Jones lost patience. "I said I understand!" It came out loud, through his teeth; he'd talked, they'd talked, he wanted up.

"Oh, you will." With that, Peter smacked Jones. Neal jumped in surprise at the sharp, unexpected sound. And then Peter did it again.

In less than a minute, Neal counted fifteen sharp, loud smacks. Jones didn't make any noise, and Neal wondered if that was down to the shock or the young agent's toughness, or Peter having figured out how to 'spank' without actually making it hurt. Neal sort of hoped it was shock, because if he was honest with himself (something he was only when absolutely necessary,) he knew from unfortunate experience that he wouldn't be able to keep quiet when it was his turn, and the idea of someone else witnessing not just his submission to this ridiculous punishment but also his weakness and loss of control flooded him with mortification. He was surprised that Peter might even put up the farce of spanking Jones, but a little piece of Neal appreciated the gesture.

Peter lectured softly for a few minutes, saying that there had better be 'no next time' and that he really didn't want to have to 'break in another partner,' and Jones murmured kind of muzzily in response. Then Peter was telling Jones to get up. Neal couldn't really tell what happened then, though he thought he heard a muffled patting sound for just a few seconds. Then the older man told his partner to give him some space—but not to leave the room.

Neal couldn't tell what was happening, and of course, because it was Peter, he spent another fifteen minutes staring at the corner, not being able to tell what was happening behind him. And then Peter called for him, and Neal was quite certain that he could grow to like this nice, safe corner. The consultant tensed and started to shake his head, and Peter rumbled in stern warning, "Neal." Neal slumped, sighed, and slowly turned himself around and started toward Peter. The younger agent, who was standing next to some shelves with a book in his hands, didn't seem to notice anything amiss, but the senior agent did. "Neal," he said, and his tone made Neal want to hide. Neal wasn't a complete moron nor completely impervious, because he sighed, went back to the corner, retrieved the wrist rest, and made his way to where Peter stood in front of the couch. Peter thanked him then, but Neal just snorted. He wasn't naïve enough to believe that Peter would settle for putting on a show or just getting his attention.

Jones had turned back to the bookcase, much to Neal's relief, so the younger agent didn't see Peter sit down and unceremoniously yank his consultant over his lap like a six-year-old. He didn't see Peter adjust Neal's position, or pull back his pinkened right hand, or bring it down… hard enough to have Neal sucking in his breath, mostly because he could tell from the starting force that this was going to be one of the worse ones.

After twenty (hard, loud, cracky, hot, stingy, burning, agonizing) smacks, Peter stopped and asked Neal why they were here; Neal, indignant and just a little strained, retorted, "Because you're mad that the Antiques Roadshow got moved to Tuesdays?"

After a pause (probably to let Neal think about his keeper's decided lack of humor,) Peter leaned down and rumbled, "Hamilton in the morning." The lead agent let that sink in before asking again, and this time a somewhat subdued Neal managed a response that Peter found acceptable. The senior agent kept up a low conversation with his consultant for a few more minutes, saying things like, "You do realize that I'm doing you a favor this time—you should be losing the pants _and_ skivvies right now, but I'm letting you keep them, this time, as much for Clinton's sake as for yours. I'm already wondering if that's a mistake, if you should both be getting the full experience here; don't make me change my mind…" and "You three put not just our case and our lead to the hostage, but yourselves, at risk—you created a situation that could so easily have ended with the three of you in the morgue, or worse, just missing, and I will never be okay with that; I did not take on a partner so I'd have to explain to his family how my oh-so-excellent leadership didn't keep him from getting himself killed pulling some stunt, and I did not—are you listening, Neal?—I did _not_ chase you, catch you, twice, and then take you on as a consultant so that I could bury you. You hear me, kid? Not. Gonna. Happen."

Neal nodded, hearing every word, alright; his backside throbbed with each syllable, even though Peter wasn't touching it as he talked and even though Neal was trying very hard to convince the less whiny half of himself that the hand-spanking hadn't been nearly long enough or hard enough to justify soreness or fuss. Not only had he heard Peter, but he couldn't seem to focus on anything other than his backside and the lecture. Trouble was, both halves of him were pretty sure that this wasn't over.

He was right.

Neal heard the very loud thwack just before the hot-iron sting registered on his more-sensitive-than-he'd-expected nerves, and knowing exactly what would happen if he reached back to try to protect his bottom, he reached out and grabbed the arm of the couch. Peter was using the wrist rest as a paddle, ignoring Neal's wriggling and kicking and moaning as he slammed down the object with considerable force, starting high and working his way down his consultant's backside, leaving a couple of seconds between swats. With each successive impact, Neal's responses got louder, and with the fifth swat, despite all of his tension and willpower, the young con couldn't keep his cry contained; Peter must have been feeling particularly pointed (or heartless,) because even though Neal wore out and went limp after ten swats, the senior agent kept going until he'd doled out a full fifteen. Then he chucked the wrist rest onto the coffee table—without aiming—and the three men were left with Jones's awkward shifting, Neal's quiet sobs, and the ticking of Elizabeth's antique mantle clock.

Peter took a couple of minutes to just sit back and breathe; when he placed a hand on Neal's back and murmured something to him, Neal jumped, startled, and Peter set about soothing him, encouraging the younger man to relax and breathe and take it easy, while he moved his encircling left arm up to Neal's shoulder blades and used his hot right hand to rub long strokes up and down the boy's spine. After a minute or two of that, Peter helped Neal to his feet and stood up himself, then turned Neal to face him and pulled him into a tight hug, crossing his arms behind Neal's back and rubbing his hands up and down the shuddering sides. After a minute of that, Peter stopped rubbing and just held the young man, even cradling Neal's head for a few moments, then moving down to clasp the back of the boy's neck.

When Peter had given Neal some time to calm down and collect himself, he called to his partner, and Neal stepped backward out of the lead agent's arms, sorry to leave the comfort and security of the embrace. The young con couldn't yet look either man in the face, knowing that one had spanked and then held him while he cried and the other had at the very least heard same, but he did know that he'd pull it together. He always did.

Peter squeezed Neal's shoulder and sent him upstairs to 'clean up,' and Neal guessed that Peter wanted some time alone with Jones, either to explain the show he'd put on earlier or to make sure that his partner was okay after his unexpected… evening. If Jones's punishment had been a farce, Neal wasn't sure how he would deal with the hurt and humiliation, what he would do, whether he would stay. If Peter really had busted Jones's butt, well, Neal figured that he'd owe Jones, but he also hoped that Peter would make sure that Jones was okay. The young con considered Peter his (though he'd never admit that, especially since he wasn't deluded enough to think that the sentiment was mutual—no one felt that way about Neal, and he didn't expect that to change) but he thought that Jones was a good guy and that any decent person who'd been through that deserved some sort of something to start him back toward an even keel.

While Neal was washing his face and combing his hair, the front door opened and Elizabeth came in, and about ten seconds later, Jones joined his partner in crime upstairs, looking chagrined and embarrassed and a little worried as he went to wash his face.

Neal wasn't surprised to find himself informed that he would be spending the night in the Burkes' living room. Peter didn't explain, but they'd been in this position enough that he obviously assumed that he didn't have to. He produced t-shirts for both guys (Neal felt obligated to roll his eyes dramatically at being handed an FBI shirt, but he did notice that Peter had made sure to hand him his favorite one) and brought down blankets and pillows, issuing last instructions for them to bed down, turn off the light, stay put, and go to sleep. Then Peter disappeared upstairs with two mugs of tea, and Jones and Neal were left wondering what had happened between Elizabeth and Mozzie.

Neal was gentleman enough to offer the couch—his usual spot—to Jones, who considered for all of four seconds before declining. The two young men got themselves settled quickly enough, Jones on his back on the floor and Neal on his stomach on the couch, and the quiet of the house settled over them, so that they could both hear the ticking clock and the street noise and each other's muffled shifting. Neal wondered if Jones was really… squirmy… or just keeping up the act. The con artist wished that he could say that his own shifting was an act, but even facedown, he couldn't seem to find a position that didn't involve a burning, throbbing backside

It just wasn't fair.

"Well, that was a fun way to spend an evening." The sarcasm was as thick as cold molasses. Neal sighed softly after a moment. "You okay?" He hoped that he could count on Jones to read between the lines.

"Yeah, I'm good. You?"

Neal snorted quietly. "Oh, yeah, I'm cool, that was nothing."

Jones rolled his eyes. "And I'm the love child of Princess Leia and Severus Snape. Come on, man, we both know that wasn't nothing. I'm not entirely sure what it _was_, but I know I don't want it myself."

Neal shifted again, blowing out a small breath. "Don't worry, never happen."

"Ya think so?"

"Nah, Peter'd never do that to you. He did what he did tonight, probably, to make a point to you that he cares enough about you to keep stuff off-book, and too much to be afraid to go out of the box so you'll remember."

"Sounds like you speak from experience. You can't expect me to believe that that was your first trip… over."

Neal was quiet for a couple of minutes before conceding, "I was kinda hoping you'd be too distracted to notice." Jones chuckled quietly. "Peter and I have… a history." Neal really wanted that to be the end of the conversation.

No such luck.

"So… history, huh? History, like how he caught you twice, or history, like… Jackson and Hamilton?" Jones dug in and waited until Neal figured that his choices were to listen to the ticking clock all night while the question dangled over his head, or answer it and at least kill a little bit of time. Besides, he did sort of owe Jones, and it would probably be a lot less distracting to work with the man if Neal settled up by trusting him (though it might have been kind of fun to watch Jones trying to figure it out.)

"When Peter first caught me, I was… not exactly what most people had expected, though he'd pretty much figured it out. Anyway, he decided that I needed a… a keeper, I guess, a guardian of sorts… so he sort of appointed himself. He figured that I needed discipline. And he came up with a code, a way for me to know how much trouble I was in without the rest of the world knowing. I know he did it mostly for me, but to tell you the truth, I kinda think that he likes sounding mysterious." Neal had to smile just a little at that.

"So… code?"

Neal rolled his eyes. This guy just did not let go. That was probably why Peter liked Jones so much. "The code," he said, sighing, "usually comes in two parts—the first is how many minutes I have to stand in some ridiculous corner like a four-year old; the second is how many…" He couldn't say it, he just couldn't. A man his age, talking about getting spanked-it was too _wrong_.

"Whacks?" Jones offered oh-so-helpfully.

"It's as good a term as any, I suppose. Yes, the second term tells me how many… whacks… I'll be getting."

"Soooooo… when he gives you more than two, or he's already given you an amount and then he gives you another…"

Neal rubbed a hand over his eyes; this trusting business was wearing. "Gets added to the total." And then, for reasons he couldn't have explained to himself, he went on, "And generally, if he adds… whacks… then it means more than just, well, more. Like, if he adds one more set, then for that second set, he'll use… something. And if he has to add again, then he'll use the… something… a little more directly for those." He could just hear the question hanging in the air. "A third set means I lose my pants. And… whatever I happen to have under them. Just for that set."

Jones digested this for a few moments before asking, with sympathy and absolutely no teasing in his voice, "So he uses that wrist thing?"

Neal appreciated the sympathy. "Nah, that was the first time for that."

"Good, 'cause it really sounded like it hurt."

Neal gave a wry grimace. "I suspect that that would be the point. He uses something different almost every time that we get to that point; I think it's a control thing for him. He lets me know exactly how many of whatever to expect, but if I push him, then I get to worry about what he'll use. That way, I know when it'll be over, but I also have to remember that I'm not in control for that period of time. It's… it's actually kind of him, but let me tell you, it's also a real pain in the rear."

Jones groaned, and Neal grinned, thinking, 'Score!' Then something else occurred to him. "Listen, I don't want to give you the wrong impression about Peter—he's not cruel. He doesn't beat me up, he's not big on humiliating me, and no matter what he's used or how many whacks he's given me, he's never once left a bruise. And he doesn't do this to me because he feels like it; there's always something he needs me to learn or remember. Don't get me wrong, it inhales, but he's… he's invested in me, and that means something."

Jones lay quietly for a bit, and Neal imagined that he could hear the wheels turning in the agent's head. Invested… well, now the use of the historical names made sense. Each corresponded to a unit of currency, and the currency translated to a number. It was simple, really, and imminently practical in this case, since money was as much a tool to Neal as a ruler to an architect, albeit a tool he often had to use by proxy.

When Jones asked, Neal was ready for him. "When he just adds one number, it's usually a tally of whacks?" Neal confirmed that, and Jones made the next little leap. "So, when he said 'Hamilton in the morning,' that means…?"

"That you might want to find somewhere else to grab breakfast. I don't think you're going to want to be here. I know I won't."

Neal was pretty sure that Jones was making a mental note not to mouth off to Peter anytime soon.

Morning came all too soon—albeit, to the aroma of really superior coffee. Elizabeth woke her guests, and Neal, wanting to put off 'Hamilton in the morning' for as long as possible, gave Jones first crack at the bathroom. The agent emerged a few minutes later, back in his suit, and looked surprised when Elizabeth looped her arm through his and told the others that she was going to teach him what a real breakfast was so that maybe he'd rub off on her husband and Neal.

All too soon, Neal found himself left with Satchmo, who wasn't very interested in him today, and Peter, who was altogether too interested in him today. "C'mon, Neal, let's get this over with—I'd like to actually be able to eat something other than whatever's at the bottom of the office coffee pot before I have to get back to the paperwork from yesterday."

Neal turned to look back at Peter and sighed. The older man was sitting on the center couch cushion again, looked tired and resigned; as much as Neal wanted to pretend that this wasn't happening, he knew that he couldn't. Peter could lose patience real fast, and Neal really wasn't sure how he was going to control himself through ten swats on an already-tender backside, let alone more. So, with another sigh, he shuffled over to Peter's right side. He opened his mouth to try to talk Peter out of this, but a good look at the older man shut him up. With somewhat practiced movements, he started to lower himself, but Peter stopped him with a hand.

"Pants," was all the man said, and gave a tilted head and raised eyebrow at Neal's whiny look. Grumbling a little, the young con reached down and unfastened his slacks, peeling them down just enough to clear his bottom. Peter's staying hand moved to Neal's elbow and gently helped guide him down into position, and then it peeled down silk boxers and pushed both garments farther down so that he had an unobstructed view. "You know, you should be thanking me for this."

Neal twisted so that he could look incredulously at Peter. "Thank you?! For pantsing me?!"

Peter gave him the 'really, you should know this one' look that so aggravated Neal's intellectual pride. "For protecting you. I'm making sure that I don't go too far. Or did you really think that I just get my kicks by embarrassing you?"

Knowing the answer to that, and having to appreciate that bit of consideration, Neal shut up again and untwisted, hoping that this went quickly. He felt cool air raising goosebumps on his backside for a few moments, and then the first swat fell, just Peter's open hand, and Neal sucked in a shocked, shuddering breath. He'd been sadly mistaken—he wasn't so much tender as sore. Very sore. When the second one came down a few seconds later, he couldn't help but whine wordlessly and rock forward, reflexively trying to get away from the punishing hand. Neal really needed for this to be done now, but Peter was taking his time, letting several seconds pass between searing swats; not only that, but instead of going with the natural bounce, the man was holding his hand to the skin he'd just struck after each swat, effectively trapping the sting with the actual heat. Neal was frantic to get away from it, but Peter had him in a secure hold.

Peter seemed to get what Neal was thinking. "Nowhere to go, kid," he said, gently and a little sadly. "We're dealing with this here and now; you may not like it, but you're gonna respect our relationship and your own value. If you can't do that, then this is gonna get much worse, every time."

The spanking took more than a minute, which should have made the ten swats more than bearable, but the already-sore bottom coupled with Peter's method for 'bringing home' his point to Neal made it one of the single most painful punishments he'd ever gotten, of any kind. Added to that, Peter had focused six of those swats on Neal's sit spots and undercurve, ensuring that he'd be thinking about this spanking every time he sat down today, presuming that he even could. By the time it was over, Neal was sobbing facedown into a couch cushion, holding the arm of the couch in a death grip.

He wasn't entirely aware of being reclothed or repositioned, but at some point, he opened his eyes and found himself face-up, cradled in Peter's lap and feeling the cool air on his wet face. Peter was encouraging him to breathe, and a muddled Neal wanted to obey, partially because he just knew that not obeying was a baaaaaad idea, and partially because he needed more air than he was getting, but mostly because he just wanted to please this man. Yes, he knew that Peter was the source of his pain, and Neal wasn't a masochist, wasn't really the submissive sort (he'd made a lousy sub when he and Kate had played around a couple of times-of course, so had she,) and wasn't one to fall into Stockholm Syndrome; what he was, was sure that he was safe with this person. For probably the second time in his life, Neal Caffrey had someone with whom he could breathe without checking to make sure that he wasn't breathing too loudly or that he didn't show too much of what he was thinking. He didn't have to scramble, he didn't have to pretend, he didn't have to be someone in particular—he didn't have a passport for this. He could just be there for as long as he needed. He could just _be_.

Huh. Neal Caffrey had set out to steal a little nest egg, and somehow he'd stolen a big brother instead.

Neither young man need have worried; when he and Neal finally arrived at the field office, Peter treated both Neal and Jones just the same as he always did at work, challenging their minds and skills while teasing them both like… well, like brothers.

And without asking, without even studying Neal, Jones made sure to keep throwing him tasks that required standing, walking around, even kneeling at one point to finesse a stubborn file drawer open.

Suits had his back. Even if he did have their wallets.


End file.
